Wednesday, March 25, 2009

The Glove

The glove lay new in its box
Rich and grainy, unlike mine
Woven webbing, taut and clean
Rubbed into an oily shine.

In this box a birthday gift
The leather sewn surprise
Waiting for a fingered hand
To clutch its fallow hide.

One last graze across the grain
To feel the ball tucked in tight
I placed the lid back on the box
For alas,
There will be no catch tonight.

- M.A. Hines


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